


a life so demanding

by kaijugore



Series: i am (not) afraid to keep on living [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Klaus Hargreeves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, M/M, No Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ben Hargreeves, hate that i have to tag that yall nasty esp yall bein like 'pseudo incest' its real incest and Gross, its been a While since ive posted here pls be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijugore/pseuds/kaijugore
Summary: "He was still carrying the war in his heart, how was he supposed to talk about that?"Ten months. 304 days. 7,300 hours. 438,000 minutes. It would never ever ever be enough time.





	a life so demanding

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i have not written in... a good while lmao but i would die for klaus hargreeves so uh. here we go. ive never read the comics so everything i know is from the show. sorry it ends kinda abruptly but i promise theres gonna be more! let me know if theres any mistakes or anything and ill correct them, and i hope yall enjoy!

As the blue light faded around him, the energy from the jump still buzzing in the air, Klaus felt a hysterical laugh building somewhere deep in his chest. He was back on the bus. As if nothing had happened at all. A few hours had passed, at most.

There were only a few things that contradicted that. The new tattoos on him, the army greens he was still wearing, the blood on his hands. Blood that had once been fresh, slick and wet, but was now caked onto his hands. It was buried underneath his fingernails. He didn't think he'd ever be able to scrub it off. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Cool metal against the back of his neck reminded him of the set of dog tags settled against his chest. A shiver rocked down his spine and he felt tears trailing down his cheeks. He was on a bus in 2019. His heart was dead and gone, bled to death on the dirty jungle floor in Vietnam, in 1968. He curled in on himself.

He didn't remember getting off the bus, feet moving on autopilot. It was the same bus he'd been on a dozen times over, high as a kite and returning to his dealer still to restock his stash, to ensure he never spent a single second sober. The same bus on which his brother Ben had tried so many times to convince him to get clean. Ben, the only thing he’d missed about 2019. Standing on the sidewalk, looking around at buildings and alleyways that were no longer familiar, watching people go on about their lives, a sudden surge of anger rushed through Klaus. He was in 2019. Everything he knew now, everything he’d been for the past ten months was 1968. He still belonged in 1968. He’d left his siblings behind in 2019, but he’d left behind so much more in 1968. Why the _ fuck _ was he back in 2019 instead of 1968?

The weight of the briefcase in his hand was suddenly overwhelming. The damn briefcase that had given him the best and worst year of his life. Klaus' vision tunneled, focused in on a bench directly in front of him, and with a wild swing he smashed the briefcase into it, over and over and over again. Gunshots were still echoing in his ears. He could still hear boots stomping on the jungle dirt, he could still hear the screams of his fellow soldiers, he could still hear his own screams. And here he was, a few hours later on the day he first disappeared, everyone around him going on like nothing had happened at all. The world still spun, the sun still shone. It wasn't_ fair_.

A scream tore its way out of Klaus' throat as he flung the briefcase as far away from himself as he could. Dave's blood was still on his hands. He was entirely alone with the memory of the love of his life choking on his own blood. He could still feel the phantom weight of Dave in his arms, dying as Klaus knelt there helplessly. Klaus fell to his knees, pain more intense than anything he’d ever known striking him in the chest. He curled in on himself, sobbing hoarsely and utterly uncaring of any bizarre looks he may have been receiving. He clutched his chest, as if the bullet had struck him instead. Klaus wished it had struck him instead. He squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

“Klaus…?”

Klaus slowly returned to awareness. The shift was unpleasant. He’d spent so long mostly sober, kicking the drugs for the only person he’d ever wanted to be better for, that he'd almost forgotten the bliss of total numbness. Now, it was a welcome reminder and Klaus never wanted to forget again. He wanted to find his stash and down all of it, he wanted to forget his own name, he wanted to overdose. He wanted to silence all the noise in his head.

But he didn't want to silence that voice. He knew it, almost better than his own, and despite everything the past ten months had given him, he'd still missed its owner desperately. “Ben.”

He felt the air chill around him as his brother moved closer, and he was certain if he looked up he’d see Ben crouching down in front of him. He kept looking down, down at the blood on his hands. They were shaking. He’d been clean for too long to pretend it was withdrawal. But Ben didn't know that. Ben hadn't seen any of the past ten months. He’d been right beside Klaus for the past ten years and had missed the most important ten months of Klaus’ life. The hysterical laugh he'd been forcing down since he'd first been dropped back on that bus bubbled out, a choked and wet sound that left him hollow.

“Klaus! What the hell happened? I couldn't find you for hours! And _ what _ are you wearing?” Klaus felt shivers rush up his arms starting at his hands and, after a moment spent focusing his eyes, saw the translucent forms of Ben’s hands wrapped around his own bloodied ones. There was no sensation of physical touch, but the chill was familiar and comforting. Reminiscent of all the times Ben had hovered a hand above him, still trying to comfort even though he couldn't touch. A broken smile twitched his lips into a curve despite himself.

“Army chic not doing it for you, Benny?”

Klaus saw the ghostly hands attempt to tighten around his, his heart squeezing as they simply phased into his fingers.

“Klaus…” The tone immediately set Klaus on edge. It wasn’t one Ben utilized often. There had only been a few conversations throughout the past decade that had forced emotionally raw conversation out of Klaus. He usually preferred to not talk about anything at all, to ignore it and let it fester. Ben took issue with that particular method of coping, though. And every now and then, Ben insisted Klaus actually talk something through, with him if no one else. It was usually rather easy to ignore, though. Especially since a few pills or a shot of heroin rapidly dissipated the guilt he felt at ignoring Ben. But at that moment, Klaus was painfully sober, achingly aware of the hole in his chest and the miles between him and the only brother that knew him.

Klaus quickly stood up, spots filling his vision at the sudden change in position. “Let’s just go home, ok?” he pleaded, hugging himself as he began walking towards the Academy.

Ben quickly followed after, getting in front of Klaus and walking backwards. He was trying to make eye contact, Klaus knew, so he kept his emerald gaze focused on the sidewalk. “Klaus, please,” Ben pushed. The near panic in his voice tugged at Klaus’ chest, but he couldn't. It was too soon. He still had the blood on his hands, he could still hear his own screams mingled with the agonizing sounds of Dave choking on his own blood as explosions roared around them. He was still carrying the war in his heart, how was he supposed to talk about that? Ben must've realized he wasn't getting anything out of Klaus right then, because he let himself fall into step beside Klaus and said softly “Ok. Alright. Ok, let's just focus on getting home.”

Klaus didn't respond. He kept his gaze focused on the sidewalk. He scratched at his arms, as if it would do anything to help the blood on his fingers, the deep craving settled in his gut, and the hollow ringing in his chest that was once filled with camaraderie and love.

* * *

Klaus took baths as a child rather frequently. It had been a coping mechanism for a while, one of the first ones he went to before the drugs. Locking himself in the bathroom and blasting music had never gotten rid of the ghosts entirely, of course, but it had managed to distract him if only for a little while. Sobriety brought everything crashing back down, all the ghosts breaking through again as if they'd never left. Normally, it was unbearable.

Staring unseeingly at the dirty bathroom ceiling listening to the war that had ended both a few hours and a few decades ago rage on around him, the ghosts’ screams weren't even heard.

Klaus looked down at his hands rested on the knobs. Pale skin was visible once more. The blood was washed off, along with all the dirt and grime that had accumulated over ten months. Despite that fact, his hands still felt dirty. He could still feel the humidity of the jungle and he felt like he was going to be sick.

He quickly left the bathroom and headed into his bedroom, not bothering to wipe up the blood he'd left on the sides of the tub and tracked through the hall. Ben was waiting for him, perched on a dresser. Klaus ignored him and began pulling on clothes.

“Klaus. Something just happened. Spill it.”

Klaus pulled on an old, oversized shirt. The outfit was far less than what he usually wore, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He collapsed onto his bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He shivered as a pinprick of cold landed on his knee. Cracking an eye open revealed Ben had moved over to the bed, sitting next to his brother. His hand was phased through a knee.

“C’mon man, you're freaking me out. You just disappeared for _ hours_.”

A hysterical giggle broke through Klaus’ lips. He moved his hands down, fingers finding chilled metal. His thumb moved over the engraving and he could see Ben’s eyes tracking the movement. _ David Katz_. “It was so much more than that,” he murmured. It was ten months, it was almost a year, a lifetime.

Ben, seemingly eager to get as many answers as he could while Klaus was still willing to talk, quickly pressed on. “What do you mean?”

Klaus squeezed his hands around the dog tags. “Turns out little Five isn't the only one who can time travel. But I didn't go to the future.”

Ben was quiet for a moment, hand still pressed into Klaus’ knee. “Ok,” he said, and Klaus was suddenly struck by how much he appreciated Ben. Any of his other siblings would've accused him of being high, of having had a bad trip. Ben was quiet acceptance, and it served as a minor balm to his beyond frayed nerves. “So where did you go?”

Klaus closed his eyes as memories flooded over him. Nights spent around a fire, laughing and joking, mourning and grieving. Nights spent in dirty hotel rooms, being taken apart in every way possible. That first perfect night at the club, when Dave had broken down every single wall Klaus had with soft words and tenderness he'd never been shown. He felt tears slide down his cheeks as he spoke. “I was sent to 1968 in Vietnam. I fought in the war, Ben.” A wistful smile tugged at his lips. “And I fell in love.”


End file.
